It was a grand life. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. "But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?" "Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. It was bad luck to go to Canongate.
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